


Licentious

by DeCuvieri



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Choking, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, M/M, Pony Play, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCuvieri/pseuds/DeCuvieri
Summary: A collections of explicit shorts and one-offs. Ships, themes, and warnings will vary by chapter.





	1. Utopaea - Satya Vaswani/Hanzo Shimada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon of the South Wind Hanzo Shimada / Goddess of Destruction Satya Vaswani. Mythical beings doin’ oral and making plans for destroying the planet. Bondage. Some dom/sub stuff. Might be kind of dub-con if you squint? But I promise Hanzo’s definitely into it.

When the world ends it won’t be fire and brimstone and unbridled hysteria as the sky crashes down into the earth. No, when that day inevitably comes the destruction of all things will be methodical. Orderly. Hanzo knows this because the woman who will see to their annihilation values one thing above all else: control.

He is bound by her influence, snared in ribbons made solid from light and her willpower. He stopped testing the bonds after days of struggling failed to yield any give. His hands and arms are tied, and the bindings wrap around his torso in intricately woven knots. He is allowed to walk on his own volition, provided his mistress is not leading him around like a pet on a leash.

“Do you still resent me?” asks The Goddess. The ribbon fades over Hanzo’s mouth fades into nothingness, but he knows this is not an invitation for him to speak. “The form of man does not suit you, I know. Being confined to such a humble vessel must be unbearable.”

It is. Hanzo’s dragon essence presses against his prison of bones and skin. His might threatens to burst out of the frail, mortal body, but The Goddess’ ties and knots keep his cage together. He is as ancient and powerful a being as any to walk the earth, yet on her whim Hanzo has been reduced to something pathetic. Human.

“Poor creature. I would see you restored to your magnificence were it not for the chaos you’ve sown. In killing the Dragon of the North Wind you have created an imbalance. It cannot be allowed.” She sits in a chair of her on conjuring. Long, silky hair cascades down the contours of her body like a dark waterfall. Hanzo turns his gaze to the floor.

He killed his brother. He killed Genji, and the battle wreaked storms and strife over their lands. Hanzo knows he must be punished by the heavens for his fratricide. He is being punished by The Goddess for the destruction he’d caused, a right to which she feels only she is entitled.

The Goddess takes the binding leashed around Hanzo’s neck and tugs for him. He goes, as desired. He could resist her. He could turn away. She would permit him the illusion that he has any power to oppose her will, though it would cost him The Goddess’ favor. When she parts her legs he kneels before her like a well-trained animal. He wonders if that's all he is now.

Long fingernails rake through Hanzo’s hair, and with her palm against the back of his head he is guided to her vulva. He repeats the motions The Goddess has shown him, using his unfamiliar human tongue to kiss her clit and taste her divinity. He can tell she is pleased when she wraps her thighs around his head and tightens the hold on his leash.

“Take solace. You’ve become my fondest pet. When the time is right you will help me recreate this broken world.”

Hanzo’s pride demands he answer such a demeaning comment, but he is struck by how his mortal body responds: heartbeat quickening, breath hitching, member stirring with the first promise of arousal. Like an ox harnessed to plow the dirt, The Goddess will use his power to reform the land. He will stand cowed at her side and do her bidding, a slave to her designs. He realizes he won’t be able to fight her dominion over him. He’s not certain he’ll want to.

“We will have Utopaea,” she gasps when Hanzo plunges his tongue deep inside of her.


	2. Mississippi - Jesse McCree/ Gabriel Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1830ish-AU. Riverboat McCree/Bounty Hunter Reyes. Rough sex, facefucking.

Reyes folds. The man in the red coat wins the hand, and with murmurs of discontent coming from the other players the chips are pushed his way. He collects his prize and prepares to excuse himself.

“Think that’ll do it for me tonight. Mighty kind of you fellas to lend your hard-earned American _dólares_ to the cause. Rest assured, I’ll be takin’ fine care of it in your steads.”

The mood at the table is not cheerful, but it's also not hostile. The winner gathers his belongings, tips his hat to the remaining players, and is allowed to leave without being accosted. Nobody at the table seems the wiser for having just been robbed.

_He’s wised up,_ Reyes thinks. His target is turning a new leaf by being more careful. He throws enough hands to ward off suspicion, but at the end of the night he walks away with full pockets. Not the fastest way to get rich, but a lot less risky than holding up a bank or hijacking a train.

Reyes doesn’t leave the game right away. On a riverboat there are only so many places one can go, and there are regular haunts besides the gaming hall where he can catch up with the fugitive later. He doesn’t want to seem too eager to keep McCree in sight.

…But he does want to seem a  _little_ eager. On his way out the door the card sharp does toss an extra glance over the shoulder at him, and Reyes knows the plan’s working.

He plays for a while longer, then goes back to his cabin where he dines privately. He stays in until after nightfall. Chum the water too much, make himself too available, and his target won’t take the bait. After a sufficient time has passed Reyes heads to the bar. He’s in for two gin slings and twenty pages of a dull book when Jesse McCree reappears and invites himself to sit down. 

They make the agonizing, obligatory small talk which allows McCree to feel Reyes out, then drop a few lines of his own. Reyes plays along, trying to paint himself as cautiously reserved until drunk enough to hint at an interest. It’s a carefully orchestrated cat-and-mouse game. Reyes has spoken to enough jailed Deadlocks to know about the scoundrel’s proclivities, but McCree has worry about misreading signals. It takes a while for his guard to ease. He's being more careful now. 

Reyes makes a bold move and rests his hand on McCree’s thigh. They finish their drinks and agree to take things to the outlaw’s quarters.

“You got a name?” McCree asks while he’s got his hand down Reyes’ pants, stroking his cock to attention.

“I figure ‘Sir’ will work for now.”

“Have it your way, Sir.” McCree grins, and he allows Reyes to push him down onto the bed.

Reyes is bare from the waist down, but under his shirt and jacket he still has his gun on a shoulder holster. No effort is made to strip him of any more clothing than is necessary. McCree is too hungry for him. Gabriel can see it in his eyes, and were McCree not a wanted fugitive his motives for getting the bandit alone and vulnerable might have been different. He straddles McCree over the hips and grabs the front of his vest in a fist, intent on tearing it loose from the buttons. McCree stops him.

“Expensive shirt.”

“Then best get rid of it fast.”

McCree sits up from beneath Reyes. The outlaw doesn’t break eye contact as he works his arms free of his coat and peels it off. The vest goes next, both the garment and the concealed knife are tossed away in a careless gesture. The white, collared shirt is only half unbuttoned when they both decide that’s good enough. Reyes pins him back down.

“Must admit that I am dyin’ to know your intent,” McCree says.

“My intent,” Reyes begins to answer, knee-walking up the length of McCree’s torso until he is splayed over the man’s shoulders, “is to fuck your throat until we both black out.”

McCree grins at this suggestion, wicked and adoring.

“You’ll forgive my presumptuousness, but I do believe I’m in love.”

He shuts McCree up by sitting on his face. Gabriel holds onto the rickety headboard and rolls his hips, rubbing himself over the outlaw’s beard. McCree’s tongue darts out to tease the sensitive underside of his cock as it passes over his lips, creating a delicious contrast of sensation for Reyes to rut over. Damn.  _Damn_ , it’s been a long time.

He risks a backward glance at the revolver still holstered on his… companion’s belt. Confronting Jesse “Deadeye” McCree would be suicide so long as there’s a gun within reach, so he’ll work the long play and convince the murderer to disarm himself.

((Well. Since he’s committed to this course of action anyway, why not enjoy it? It’s not like McCree will be alive to tell anyone.))

“I’ve been watching you since we left St. Louis,” Reyes offers, and it’s the truth. So is the next part, though he’s less eager to admit it. “Been thinking about all the unholy things I could do to you.”

McCree hums with an upturn like asking a question. It’s heaven when he sucks the head of Gabriel’s cock between his lips for a lurid kiss, and damn it, it’s too bad about McCree. Gabriel wouldn’t mind getting to play with the handsome man for longer than a night, but a job’s a job.

“Curious? Fine. I’ll show you.”

McCree’s hair is slicked back and is easy to take by the fistful. With a sharp yank he drags the thief’s face up in time to meet the roll of his hips, and McCree takes Gabriel into his mouth eagerly. His tongue lolls over his throbbing member, working to appease the invading force even as his throat tightens.

He pushes until McCree resists. It’s a token gesture, but it makes Reyes gasp. Then he drives himself in harder, picking up the pace until he’s fucking McCree’s head into the pillow.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? Rough.  A fight every step of the way. The fine bourbon and the nice clothes, none of that is who you really are.  _This_ is you.”

McCree whimpers incredibly around Reyes’ cock. It feels good to be right.

The bed creaks and a lamp on the nightstand sends shadows scattering over the room with every thrust of Reyes’ body. McCree’s hands are everywhere. Fingers are sent sprawling over Gabriel’s stomach, feeling the definition of his arms, roaming his back, clutching his thighs. He grasps for purchase on Reyes suit and unwittingly pulls the lawman close.

“Arrogant bastard,” Gabriel rasps, “You let everyone think you’re a proper frontier man, but really you’d rather be on all fours under the table with your head in their laps.”

Gabriel is sure he’s never been so hard in his life, riding the defiant gunman helpless. He ignores the paltry efforts to get him to ease off and punishes them by tightening his hold on the cowboy’s head, pressing his nose into his pubic hair until he’s not even fucking McCree anymore; he’s making minuscule jerks, hardly creating any friction at all. The heat and the ownership is more than enough.

Tears stream down McCree’s cheeks. Blunted nails dig deep enough into Reyes’ hips to cut the flesh while the outlaw swallows and coughs around his cock. But as he looks down McCree’s puffy eyes open, and he stares back at Gabriel with the same unbridled desire he’d shown at the card game. It’s needy and shameless and damn  _beautiful_ -

Reyes tosses his head back, drags the bandit's mouth up flush against his pelvis, and begins to shoot his come against the back of McCree’s throat. McCree nearly heaves him off as he chokes from the brutality.

“Swallow it,” he orders. When McCree continues to struggle beneath him he threatens, “Take it all in you or I won’t be as gentle next time.”

McCree makes sloppy, wet gagging sounds as he works to swallow around Reyes’ spasming cock. He’s sobbing, shaking beneath Reyes’ body and cheeks wet against his thighs.

When Gabriel pulls out he leaves a thick, white band of come and saliva that cuts across the dark hair of McCree’s beard. In a fanciful moment, Gabriel threads his fingers through McCree’s hair and makes a cursory effort to brush it back into place. He thinks, what if? But that’s an idle daydream which he dismisses shortly after it begins.

He slides off McCree and gives the outlaw an opportunity to collect himself. He sits on the edge of the bed and listens to frantic gasps ease into something less desperate, less on the verge of death and ecstasy.

It’s a damn shame about Jesse -- Jesse McCree and that  _incredible_ bounty on his head.

“I suppose you want me to return the favor,” Gabriel says after a while. He hears McCree chuckle, but he keeps his eyes fixated on the floor where he hopes to locate some of his misplaced resolve.

McCree’s voice is hoarse from his vocal chords having suffered such abuse. “Hm. A gentleman wouldn’t presume, but a gentleman would offer.”

Suits Reyes fine. He’s no more a gentleman than McCree, but he does need the outlaw to be shut of that damn gun. Without ceremony Reyes turns and unbuckles McCree’s belt. He knows McCree is watching him - he can feel those dark eyes boring holes into him - but he doesn’t meet the challenge. It’s not guilt that holds Gabriel back as belt, holster, and revolver are discreetly tucked under a blanket and shoved beneath the bed, but something… something like it?

It's irrelevant. McCree is disarmed. Perfect, he decides. Now it’s as simple as-

The sound of hammer being wheeled back puts a stop to everything. When Reyes looks up he’s met with the barrel of his own gun being leveled at his head. Past it, he catches McCree’s sly smirk.

“Well,  _Sir_ ,” McCree clears his throat, but his voice is still rough and playful. “It seems you’ve created somethin’ of an awkward situation for us.”

Out of reflex Gabriel reaches for his shoulder holster. His hand finds the leather as expected, but when he feels for his firearm his fingers close around empty air.

Shit. Reyes sits back on his haunches.

“You know who I am?”

“You must think me a damned fool not to know Gabriel Reyes when I see him. Hell, you’ve hanged more Deadlocks than any lawman.” He shrugs, though not enough to drop his guard. Gabriel would have retaken the gun if he’d been given half a chance. “My condolences on the election, by the way. To your credit, that backwater town wasn’t never gonna make a brown man sheriff so long as there was a white imbecile they could vote for instead.“

His pride kicked, Gabriel sneers back, “No, but they might vote for the man who finally strings up the conniving, thieving, murdering outlaw Jesse McCree.”

“Sure. Maybe. Everyone’s gotta have a dream.” His finger drums on the trigger. Then, with a feral edge in his expression that's becoming quite familiar to Gabriel by now, McCree poses: “My question, Mr. Reyes, is do you feel your dream is worth dyin’ for?” 


	3. Shapeshifter - Jesse McCree / Gabriel Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lycanthrope!McCree/human!Reyes. All standard furry/interspecies/sapient were-animal sex warnings apply. Gabriel is a particularly shameless and kinky SOB.

He _should_ be repulsed by allowing himself to be mounted by a dog. Reyes concedes this as he obligingly draws himself up to his knees, McCree’s long tongue lapping his hole wet. He _should_ respond to the mere idea with nothing but contempt and disgust for anyone willing to be  _used_ by something inhuman.

Thing is, Reyes doesn’t really give a shit about the social mores against fucking lycanthropes when they’re turned. McCree in any form is still McCree, even when he’s an enormous brown wolf humping him in his sleep, laying claim to Gabriel with his scent and begging for sex.

“It’s good. Come on,” he says when he’s ready. Any other time they’d take it slow, but McCree’s canine impulses don’t allow for much teasing or foreplay. That’s fine. If he’s completely honest with himself, Reyes doesn’t want to wait for it.

The feeling of McCree’s warm muzzle pressed against his ass is replaced by the warm fur of his groin; the shapeshifter hops up on his hind legs and drapes himself bodily over Reyes. It’s an effort to support the weight bearing down on him, but Gabriel braces his arms and holds position while McCree’s forelegs wrap around his torso. He pretends not to like it when duclaws scratch red marks across his belly.

His dick starts to get hard at the thought, so Reyes glances over his shoulder and asks: “You gonna knot in me, cowboy?”

A warm puff of air on the back of his neck, followed by a whimper. He knows McCree wants to. They’ve been careful up until now, but he’s seen the wolf fully aroused and thinks he can take it. Reyes feels something wet drag over the back of his thigh. He frees one arm up to guide the slick appendage that has emerged from McCree’s furry shaft against him.

He’s ready for it. The muscles in his stomach tighten when the pressure against his asshole finally forces him open, and he takes McCree in with a groan.

With the ghost of a wicked grin Reyes imagines the response if anyone found out Blackwatch’s department head got off to being bred by wolf-lycan cock, and that of his subordinate no less. He pictures Jack’s disgusted bewilderment; Angela cringing at the infraction against conventional morality; Ana, sipping at her tea and silently passing judgement. Reyes would have to pretend to be ashamed and humiliated despite enjoying their violation of the taboo.

McCree says he loves fucking Reyes on full moons. He says being the wolf dials every sensation up to eleven. That might be part of it, but Jesse is just as drawn in by the filthy, forbidden nature of this as he is.

“That’s right. Get it. Yeah, just like that…” Gabriel urges him through the first wild thrusts. It’s not much at first, but soon his dick begins to engorge, filling Reyes out from the inside and stretching him open.

McCree’s head rests heavy on his shoulder. He licks the shell of Reyes’ ear, and the commander turns to press a kiss to his maw. A whisker tickles his nose.

“Fuck, you feel so damn good. Always do.” He chuckles recklessly. His partner takes it as a go-ahead.

It’s impossible to jerk himself off in rhythm to McCree’s frantic humping. When the knot starts to catch as it passes through his hole it’s all Reyes can do not to clench tight. God, he wants it. It’s twisted, this thing they do, but Reyes’ fingers come back wet with precome as he thinks about being tied to Jesse. He wants to be plugged up and used; wants to be helpless to do anything but take it while the lycan comes deep into him. It flies against everything Reyes ever envisioned for himself before, but with Jesse it’s the best goddamn feeling in the world. He’s fucking  _addicted_ to it. 

McCree bites the back of Reyes’ neck, domineering and possessive, and the commander loses his breath as his mate breeds him.


	4. Pulsate - Widowmaker / Sombra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widowmaker/Sombra. Erotic electric boogaloo.

“Where is he?” Widowmaker asks before she’s even rounded the corner through the door - the door which she hadn’t even  _knocked on_  first.

Rude, but that’s fine. Sombra had been alerted to her coming up the elevator three floors ago. All information pertaining to a certain booze-drenched, Ex-Blackwatch cowboy has been secreted away to a private drive, leaving only boring Talon memos and one video feed running on the displays when Widowmaker strides in, unannounced but not unexpected.

“Somewhere near the bottom,” says the hacker, lounging with one leg draped over the arm of her chair. She enlarges the stream from the storage room surveillance. Reaper is hardly visible in the shadows, but there’s a familiar distortion. It's a hazy blackness that clouds images on the normal spectrum and can’t be picked up at all on infrared. “If they’re so worried about him wraithing into places he’s not wanted then he should be contained. I’ve got better things to do with my day than play Where’s Waldo.”

“He’s an ally, not our prisoner,” Widowmaker says coolly, arms folded as she comes to Sombra’s side.

“If you say so.” Sombra takes that to mean Talon hasn’t figured out a way to cage Reaper yet. Not surprising since they can barely track his movements in their own house.

Widowmaker stares intently at the video, and for just a moment she’s not watching every corner, aware of every detail of the room. Sombra tilts her chair back to admire the long curve of the woman’s spine, fingers pressed to her lips with intrigue.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. We need to take on a job without the third wheel,  _araňa_. Let’s go have some fun. Remember Chile? You and me, holed up in that quiet little cabin in the mountains, watching the snow fall…”

“That assignment was pointless. The target never emerged.”

“We still made good use of the time.” Then, daring to take her life in her own hands, Sombra reaches up to trace along the spider tattoo with a clawed nail.

It’s subtle, like all of Widowmaker’s mood changes, but if you know what to look for then a slightly arched eyebrow and a tiny quirk of the lips is the same as purring like a kitten. Encouraged, Sombra twiddles her fingers, activating a neat little program that runs from the underlay of her suit – one which she knows the assassin is fond of.

“Remember how much you liked this?” she asks, grinning at how the tiny electrical pulses stimulate Widowmaker’s skin, inciting gentle twitches and shivers as she rakes her charged nails down the woman’s back. Widow’s eyes drift closed, but she’s still tense. “Ease up. This is my kingdom. No eyes watching in here but mine.”

That she’s certain of, because the truth is it’s the first reason why Widowmaker is such a frequent visitor. After every outing Sombra locates and fries a dozen of Talon’s bugs that have crept into her quarters. The sleeper agent is their employers’ only means to spy on their loose cannon, but the arrangement is acceptable. Because here in Sombra’s kingdom, Widow is allowed to relax and grin and show signs of life without having to worry about her handlers deciding another round of treatment is in order. That’s the second reason that keeps her coming around.

And the third reason? The delightful company, of course.

“I remember how insufferable your flirting became afterward.”

“Oh? Then you have to remember begging to come while I was kissing your pussy.”

Normally a statement so forward, so  _uncouth_ would earn Sombra the harshest of sideways glares, but now free from the prying eyes of her handlers Widowmaker actually smiles.

“C’mon! We never have girl time anymore,” Sombra whines and pats her lap. “We can braid each other’s hair. We’ll paint our nails and chat about boys.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

It’s beauty in motion, the way Widowmaker’s skin-tight leotard highlights her lithe body as she slings a leg over to straddle Sombra. The hacker bites her lip at the thigh muscles suspending Widow just barely in her reach, hovering above her like she’s waiting for something. Sombra sits up in her chair with delight and crosses her legs with one knee over the other, offering herself up for the assassin’s use.

“Yeah, yeah, no need to get snippy. I got what you want right here.” She flexes her fingers again, nails crackling a gentle charge. “What’cha got for me, little spider?”

A sly smirk. An scrunched nose It’s not hard to see Widow’s been thinking about this too, because she watches Sombra’s reaction as she slowly slides her palms over the slick glossiness of her bodysuit. She’s playing to her audience, making a show out of pulling her leotard away from her breasts.

A tingle runs up Sombra’s spine that has nothing to do with the electricity coursing across her outfit.

“Well?” Widowmaker drawls, “Are you just going to stare and leave me to do everything myself?”

Sombra would never dream of such a thing. Not when she’s been dreaming so often of getting to play with those fantastic breasts again; of once more getting to hear Widow’s filthy mewlings while her skin takes on a pinkish hue because of a quickening heartbeat. She’s curious to know how warm she could make the cold-blooded woman with her touch.

They really do need to get off this base. Sombra would kill to have those gorgeous thighs wrapped around her, stiletto heels digging into her back

Vaguely aware of Widow lightly grinding down against her knee, Sombra leans forward and lolls her tongue over one of the dark, supple nipples. She takes her time sucking and grazing it with her teeth, pleased by the hums of approval and encouragement she receives as the flesh goes hard from the attention.

And it’s sweet for as long as Sombra decides to be sweet, but even she has only so much patience. Widowmaker rolls her hips, massaging herself over the bend of the hacker’s knee through her suit. That’s when Sombra settles back, considers the tit still shiny with saliva, and presses a nail to it.

“ _Merde!_ ”

When she tosses her head back it’s hard for Sombra not to admire Widow’s long, graceful neck, or the way her hair cascades in sleek, black streams over the elegant curves of her body. And it’s a good thing for her that Sombra’s past her days of falling stupidly in love, because if she were made of anything less steely the soft bob of Widow’s throat when she moans under the rippling shocks would have done the the former gang member in.

…which is not to say she isn’t harboring one hell of a crush, but at least she’s being smart about it. Widowmaker wouldn’t have any interest in her otherwise.

“Ooh,  _araňa_ ,” Sombra coos. She presses another shock into Widowmaker’s cool skin and laughs at the full-body spasm it invokes. “I can’t wait to see what you do when I start playing with your clit.”


	5. Behave - Ana Amari / Reinhardt Wilhelm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt is so happy to have Ana for a mistress that he can be a bit unmanageable. Ana intends to fix that. Dom/sub, orgasm denial.

It truly is ridiculous how much clerical work the United Nations expects an organization of _soldiers_ to do.

Ana works her way through the ever-growing list of messages on her datapad, answering and closing out those she can right away; flagging for tomorrow the ones she cannot. Her colleagues know by now that the precious few evenings not spent on assignment are reserved for her daughter, and no one dares press Amari for more of her time. But Fareeha is with her father, and that means Ana is left to whittle away the hours in her apartment with her datapad, a cup of hot tea, and a naked German man on a leash.

“There should not be any clattering,” Ana warns, voice firm but gentle.

Beside her chair, on all fours as he’d been for the past hour, Reinhardt lowers his head at the admonisment. The fragile saucer and teacup balanced between his shoulder blades are shaking with the strain of his tired arms, distracting enough to Ana that it makes it difficult to read.

“Verzeihung,” Reinhardt whimpers. The huge expanse of his back rises with a deep breath, then the noise halts. All that is left is the faint, muffled buzz just on the edge of hearing.

 _Poor man,_ Ana thinks as she reaches for the remote resting in the curve of his spine. He was so eager, so desperate to please, but whomever had previously held his leash had made absolute hash of his training. At times he’s too rambunctious to follow instruction, and he sulks after a reprimand rather than immediately correct the problem. But that’s all right. Ana knows how to address misbehavior, and she is patient.

She dials up the intensity on the remote, and the hum of the vibrator inside Reinhardt’s clenching hole rises a pitch. To his credit, the bulwark of a man maintains silent composure as the toy thrums persistently against his prostate. He knows better than to make a sound. Last time he broke form and came even though Ana hadn’t given him permission. Now, in addition to the collar around his neck, Reinhardt must also wear the tortuous cuff that keeps his member hard and aching but unable to release.

The sad whine he made when she’d locked his already-stiff cock into the metal rings had both broken Ana’s heart and made her smile.

“Mind yourself, kalab.” She replaces the remote and picks up the delicate, ceramic teacup. The liquid inside is still sloshing around, and while Ana waits for it to settle she feels a pang of sympathy for her poor, sweet pet. Reinhardt only struggles because he’d lacked a skilled mistress capable of handling such a rambunctious submissive, and now that he’s finally found one he’s simply too excitable.

It’s going to take a long time to break him into a proper plaything.

Ana sips at her tea and returns to her messages, ignoring the heavy cock hanging between Reinhardt’s thighs as easily as she does the sweat prickling on his brow. She won’t grant him the satisfaction of touch tonight, not even of his own. She understands his anxious nature isn’t entirely his fault, but Reinhardt will have to earn his way back into Ana’s good graces. After enough time has passed that she’s sure he’ll appreciate the privilege, maybe _then_ she’ll take the ring off her giant puppy for a few minutes and let him rut against a pillow. But for now there will be no praise until he can learn to obey.

By the end of the evening the vibrator is singing on its highest setting, reducing Reinhardt to a shivering, mewling mess who clearly wants to beg for mercy. Ana waits for him to speak out of turn. She’s ready to put another toy in him when he acts up. He doesn’t though, and with a twinge of pride Ana rewards his restraint.

“Good boy,” she coos. She pets Reinhardt’s hair fondly when he rests his head in her lap and smirks when he moans, so grateful to finally be paid some of her attention.

“You are too kind to me, mistress.”


	6. Cottontail - Jesse McCree / Gabriel Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reyes dons the timeless sexy bunny outfit for McCree. Lovey floof. Self fingering, exhibitionism/voyeurism, a good sprinkling of dom/sub stuff.

McCree first notices it in the way Reyes walks. His posture is just a little too rigid even for him, and he seems not to have his full range of movement. McCree initially shrugs it off, dismissing it as the result of a training room injury or something like that.

Later, instead of just bending over to pick up a pen, Reyes kneels down awkwardly to grab it. His face doesn’t flinch with the effort, and McCree’s back to wondering,  _Okay. If not hurt, then what?_

The question nags at him until it’s time for the evening meal. While they are in line waiting to be served McCree discretely feels under Reyes’ hooded jacket. He has to know. Gabriel doesn’t stop him even though they’re surrounded by a packed mess hall. The commander keeps a look-out for curious eyes while McCree presses his fingers into… into…

…It’s definitely more solid than bandages, whatever it is Reyes is wearing beneath all the layers. It’s firm and resists his prodding. His mind running amok with possibilities, McCree dares to pull the tail of the shirt out from Gabriel’s waistband. He expects to be swatted away in this very public setting, but Reyes maintains his indifferent vigil for onlookers.

McCree lifts up the layers and spares a quick glance, already covering things back up before he can process what he saw. The suggestion alone was enough to send a tingle across his cheeks and down his groin. He recalls a tiny strip of shiny, black latex stretched over Gabriel’s hip. Just below the waistline, lace. Pink lace.

He and Reyes exchange a look that conveys nothing except an acknowledgement, then they take their trays to sit down for dinner.

 

* * *

 

McCree is pleased beyond words.

He doesn’t express it. The cowboy lights up a cigar and kicks his boots up on Reyes’ impeccably clean coffee table, making himself comfortable. Nonchalance is a quintessential skill for both a Blackwatch agent and for a good dominant, and he’s long mastered it. Still, Jesse approves wholeheartedly of this turn of events. Wearing such a provocative outfit on his own volition was a big step for Reyes, though hiding beneath his BDU’s wasn’t exactly daring. It’s a good start, but Gabriel’s going to have to put on more of a show to get the reward he’s after.

That’s not to say McCree isn’t impressed, oh no. The corset was everything he’d hoped for, hugging around the commander’s broad chest and cinching just enough at the waist to add some curve to his figure. His pectorals were pushed up into a faint bustline. It must have taken Gabriel forever to lace up the back himself, but the cords were perfectly even and tight. 

Even so, McCree’s favorite part of Reyes proves to still be his incredible, sculpted legs. The black stockings were thin and sheer, lending a fantastic accent to the curves of his calves and thighs. He knows Reyes has perfect balance, but he still finds himself transfixed by how effortlessly Gabriel moves on pencil-thin heels. He was gorgeous, but none of that was even the best part.

“Is that a tail on your backside there?” McCree flicks ashes off his cigar, heedless of where they fall.

Sure enough, a white, fluffy bunny tail is sewn into the spandex leotard that barely covers Reyes’ rear and does a poorer job for what he’s packing in front. Rather than answer, Gabriel awkwardly straightens out some of the accent lace. Seeing Reyes blush is always a treat, rare occurrence that it is.

“That get-up come with ears too?” the cowboy asks.

“No.”

 _Liar_. There’s consequences for that.

“Go put ‘em on,” McCree says. He was going to have the commander do that anyway, but now he keeps his tone flat and cool. Everything Gabriel does is intended to elicit a reaction. The most effective form of discipline in Jesse’s arsenal is apathy.

Gabriel waffles for a moment, choosing between his options. Jesse expects him to retreat into what’s familiar by resisting, putting it on McCree to  _make_ him submit rather than do so on his own. To that end, he’s surprised when Gabriel goes to retrieve the ears from their hiding place. 

“Holy shit,” an amazed McCree murmurs to himself. 

When Reyes comes back Jesse occupies his lips by blowing a long breath of smoke into the air between them. It’s plain to see Gabriel is embarrassed by the headband with the white rabbit ears, but his eyes dare McCree to mock him. Jesse has no interest in doing so; on the contrary, he’s more enticed than ever. He motions with his head for Gabriel to come closer.

Gabriel makes to sit on the couch but McCree shoos him down to the floor. On delicate heels Reyes crouches at his side, a hand on McCree’s knee for support.

“Hey,” Jesse coos because he can sense when Gabriel’s feeling defensive. He takes his submissive’s chin and tilts his face up. “Dammit if you ain’t the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

This is uncharted territory for them. Surrendering his power is so against Reyes’ nature that it’s going to be a long time before he’s able to do it freely. Still, he does turn into McCree’s touch just so. It’s an encouraging sign.

“Do you want me to…” he trails off, but the pointed look he gives McCree’s crotch is unmistakable.

Jesse shakes his head. Instead he sits up, plants his boots back on the floor, and props his cigar between his teeth. Then he coaxes Gabriel to move. With a hand on the back of the corset he guides his partner to the coffee table, letting him settle on his knees before bending him over the polished wood. The corset doesn’t make it easy and Gabriel must be having some trouble breathing as he does it, but he positions himself as desired.

“You’re so beautiful,” McCree murmurs. He perches himself on the edge of the couch, hands full of Gabriel’s perfect ass, that fascinating little bunny tail bobbing before him.

Reyes snorts because a thousand times he’s said  _handsome, McCree. Not ‘beautiful’._  He holds his tongue as McCree pushes a thumb beneath the spandex. The fabric has a lot of give; he can lift it, get his entire hand under it easily. It was probably designed to be pulled to the side for easy access.

Perfect.

“Where’s that lube at?”

Reyes points in the general direction of the end table, which McCree knows full-well is one of the many places he could find the stuff. The question was more of a tease than anything else. He leans far over to get into the drawer.

“You gonna fuck me, McCree?”

Hell no. Not for a while, because Jesse’s sure Gabriel’s been thinking about this all day and can stand to wait a bit longer. He wants it, sure, but he doesn’t need it yet. He hasn’t earned that yet. McCree finds the bottle.

“Didn’t you tell me there was a department head meetin’ this mornin’?”

“Hm. Yeah. I telecommed in.”

Jesse grins and nudges the lubricant into Gabriel’s hand.

“So you was talkin’ shop to Morrison, Amari an’ all them while wearin’ this? Should’ve gone in person.”

“It’s hard to focus on budget reports with a sex bunny costume and half a hard-on.” Reyes squeezes some slick into his palm and looks back at McCree.

“Still can’t believe you kept this quiet. I’d been wonderin’ what was goin’ on with you. Why don’t you go ahead and finger yourself for me?”

He sees Reyes’s adam’s apple bob when he swallows thickly. Then, working against the restrictive corset, he reaches behind himself. One hand draws the spandex bottoms to a side while the other carelessly smears the liquid over his ass cheek.

McCree, after snuffing out the last of his cigar, reclines back into the couch and puts his hands behind his head. It’s everything he could have asked for with the delicate, pink frills. The seam in the leggings that traces all the way up Gabriel’s powerful thighs. The cute little bow where the corset tie ends. McCree has a front row seat to the commander of Blackwatch finding his own hole with his fingers and teasing the muscle with slow, gentle strokes. It’s an incredible view, one that makes his soft cock throb with interest.

“That’s it, darlin’. Do yourself up nice an’ slow. Take it one at a time… Damn, I can’t get over how good you look.”

The corset strains with the effort of Gabriel’s heavy breathing, lace pulling hard against the grommets. Still, he continues despite the bindings, spreading himself open for McCree with all the aplomb of a theatrical production. His hole makes a wet squelching noise as he drives in the first finger to the first knuckle, sliding in and back out again, hardly deep enough to feel it.

McCree knows Reyes is looking at him, straining to see over his shoulder. He craves approval so badly that it’s not long before he plunges two fingers inside himself in a sudden, lewd display. The whimper he makes does hit Jesse at his core, but the most he gives Gabriel is an amused hum at the bunny tail wiggling just above the cleft of his ass. 

Everything Reyes does is meant to elicit a reaction. When he doesn’t get the one he wants, he raises the stakes. McCree is counting on it.

When Gabriel gets around to pushing the fourth finger inside himself, wrecking his own hole around his thick hands, his panting is so ragged and desperate that McCree considers breaking form and going to him. He won’t be compromised by one pretty asshole, however. Through his open fly McCree calmly palms his cock, rubbing his sluggish member to attention. 

He coaxes Reyes on: “You’re so, so beautiful. You know that, right? Ah, hell… Come on, darlin’, just a little harder for me. Yeah, just like that. Fuck… You’re so sexy. Can’t imagine what I’d do without you. Gabe… Oh, darlin’… I love you. God, I love you so much.”

He hears Reyes groan  _oh shit_  at the same time his hole clenches around his fingers. McCree strokes himself through Gabriel’s bodily shudder; through the tight coiling of his thighs and the ragged sob ripped out of him by his orgasm. 

He won’t fuck Gabriel for another round or two yet, but when McCree finally comes deep inside his exhausted partner he’ll already have been given what he really needs.


	7. Derby - Jesse McCree/Jack Morrison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack goes to McCree for pony play. Consensual dom/sub, light bondage, and humiliation ensue. Also medical kink technically applies I guess?

There’s an old farm out in the country which Overwatch uses for various off-site purposes. It’s monitored, but Jack can order Athena offline to give them privacy. He decides that is where they’ll try doing… whatever it is McCree has in store for him. He’s gone online and read up on the concept, and while it does appeal to the masochistic tendencies underlying in his psyche he’s still feeling tepid.

“I’m surprised your boss agreed to this,” Morrison says as they’re getting out of the car. Things with Reyes have been tense for a long time. He’s stunned Gabriel is willing to share.

McCree replies with a wink, “Well, you’re somethin’ of a early Christmas gift. He knows how bad I want a pony.”

 

* * *

 

 

Humiliation is normally Jack’s endgame, but being tethered naked to a tree by means of a bridle falls well outside anything the Strike Commander of Overwatch had ever envisioned for himself.

They started off slow (by Jesse’s definition) and kept the “tack” to a minimum. Leather cuffs keep Morrison’s hands secured behind his back, and a bridle holds a rubber bit between his teeth. Standard fare for this kind of thing, he's told, and those were pieces Jack was familiar with from his horses back in Indiana. The butt plug gave him pause. McCree saw it and didn’t make him wear the tail. Jack found it reassuring that his “handler” wasn’t too quick to push his boundaries.

Everything about this is surreal. McCree whistles happily as he washes Jack down with a yellow sponge and hose. A gust knocked his hat off and left it to dangle behind his back by the cord, and his unbuttoned shirt flutters in the wind. The cowboy looks like he’s in heaven, not at all like he’s the dom running a BDSM scene. He’d stepped into the role of trainer and adhered to his part well, leading one of the most influential men on earth around by reigns as if that was just a normal, everyday occurrence for him.

“Lookin’ real nice, buddy. Just a lil’ bit more. Yeah, that’s a good boy.” Jesse is, as always, self-assured and unflappable. He often stops to soothe Jack as a trainer would an actual horse, cooing softly and scratching him behind the ears.

It’s embarrassing. Degrading, actually.

Jack can’t believe how turned on he is.

Being seen naked isn’t a big deal for an old soldier, but there’s something weirdly intimate about the way McCree sponges suds over his body, watching the water run over his shoulders and down his back. The water that was in the hose had been warmed by the sun. That had been nice while it lasted, but when that’s gone what comes out is cold enough to leave Jack shivering. Gooseflesh raises the hair on his arms.

“Whoops, sorry ‘bout that. I’ll try to hurry it along.”

Jack knows his horses would have snorted to convey their displeasure. His cheeks get hot as he forces himself to snort and toss his head, ignoring his sense of pride that is outraged by the indignity. McCree is delighted.

“Fussy, ain’t ya? Well, you can relax. We’re all done with the hose.”

McCree towels him off with careful pats, then selects the broader of the brushes he’d left lying in the grass. Jack winces as the coarse bristles scratch his skin in short, fast circles. He tries to pull away, but the damn tether catches and jerks his bridle.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, you just need a little brushin’ is all. Promise I won’t touch on nothin’ too sensitive.”

Jack stands embarrassed in his restraints and waits for McCree to finish. The brush scratches his shoulder blades, down his back, over his ass. The planes of his skin are red and irritated when Jesse goes for the softer finishing brush. He goes over Jack again in long, gentle strokes, stroking through his hair like a mane and, for a moment, twisting his mouth as if lamenting the lack of a tail. Jack feels a little guilty for depriving him of that.

“You’re a real handsome boy, aren’t ya?” McCee says while he’s crouched down, brushing the hair on the pony’s legs. “Shame you’re so skittish. Wouldn’t mind showin’ you off. Get you in full tack and trained up proper, you’d be the prettiest thing.”

The thought makes Jack’s heart race. He imagines himself in place of those pictures he saw on the internet, letting McCree parade him around while dressed up in leather bondage. Even if his identity were concealed Jack can’t conceive of himself wearing hoof boots, let alone in front of people. Christ, could he even stand to wear the tail, knowing everyone would see it and be aware it was _inside_ of him?

((The answer is yes. If that’s what his handler wanted, he would get on all fours and bray like a goddamn mule.))

“Long way from bein’ ready for that anyhow, but we’ll work on it,” McCree says. Jack takes a breath. Right. McCree had explained that he would have to be broken in.

The bath over, Jack is lead into the barn where McCree unhooks the bit. Jack flexes his tired jaw. He’s only allowed a moment before his lip is pushed up over his gums by a calloused thumb. McCree grabs him by the face and studies his mouth. Once Jack realizes what he’s up to his ears turn bright red.

“Teeth are in fine enough shape. Gums are good. Uh-oh. Looks like you might’a chewed up your cheek some. Hm, maybe oughta try a different bit with ya,” the cowboy murmurs absently, like checking off a mental list. He digs into his pocket and sticks something in Jack’s mouth. It immediately dissolves in his saliva, filling his mouth with the taste of sweet apples.

A treat, the commander realizes, for being a good boy. His cock twitches in spite of himself.

The bit is put back in place. McCree continues the exam by massaging his fingers along Jack’s jaw, down his neck and over his lymph nodes. He checks the usual suspects for swelling. His rough hands glance over Jack’s ribs and press along his spine, feeling for injury. Jack's damn curious where McCree learned to do all this. It’s an accurate mimicry of the check-ups he used to perform on his real horses, though as far as he knows McCree's preferred ride back in his wilder days was a hoverbike.

When Jesse takes Jack’s dick in hand it’s not meant to be an erotic thing. It’s quick, analytical, and dehumanizing. There’s more affection shown when McCree gives him a pat on the side of his neck or during a gentle scratch between his eyes. A few strokes and he moves on, not even giving Jack the praise for resisting to urge to rut his cock into Jesse’s hand for more.

“Don’t figure you’re gonna care for this next part too much,” the cowboy starts almost apologetically, “but you behave yourself now. Gotta check you over and make sure you’re healthy.”

Jack briefly loses the ability to breathe. He knows what’s coming when McCree leaves him hitched alone, then comes back a short time later with a latex glove. Behind him, he hears a cap snap open followed by a tell-tale bottle squeeze. By the time McCree spreads his ass open Jack is already tight, both eager and mortified.

“Woah there. Best take it easy so I don’t hurt ya,” McCree soothes when his fingers meet resistance. The lubricant is cold and tingles Jack’s hole when two digits push through. McCree is firmer than he’d expected. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s clear he’s out to accomplish a task. “Shh-shh-shh.”

Jack tries to relax his tense muscles, but the cowboy is stretching him out and stroking him from the inside. He’s thorough, pressing against the walls of Jack’s rectum and feeling for irregularities. Jack’s heart pounds in his chest and his dick grows noticeably aroused by the ministrations, and when McCree chances upon his prostate Jack can’t help but jerk into it.

McCree starts to withdraw. Morrison is disappointed for a second, but then it happens again. Accident? No. A third time and fuck, that’s deliberate. Jack drops his head and moans around his bit while McCree slowly fucks him with his fingers. With the other hand the cowboy grabs Jack’s bridle and pulls back, turning his face toward the barn’s roof. 

“There you go. Just keep it relaxed for me. Good boy. Aw, yeah, you’re such a good pony.”

Jack gasps. He wants to be a good boy. He wants to make his handler happy, to get the approving touches and the little rewards. It’s so twisted, but he wants to please so badly that he almost forgets himself, almost groans a needy “yes” around the rubber and leather obstructing his mouth. Jesse knows exactly what he's doing, and Jack wishes he'd take hold of his cock, or at least let him jerk himself off to the fingering because he really does like the hard pull of his hair too...

And then, just like that, McCree’s fingers are gone. A snap of latex sends the discarded exam glove shooting across the floor.

“Alrighty, we’re all done. See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Jack feels so empty he could scream, but that’s against the rules. The wrecked sob comes out to sounding close enough to a whinny that McCree is satisfied. The cowboy digs into his pocket again. He pulls the corner of Jack’s mouth off the bit, wide enough to shove another treat over his tongue. Jack’s cock shamelessly bobs in the space between them.

“Aww, you’re so sweet. It’s like you’re just all made up of sugar.” McCree pets down Jack’s back in long, slow strokes. “You know, I can tell you an’ me are gonna have a lot’a fun together.”


	8. Haunt - Reaper / Gabriel Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Multi-dimensional Reaper/Reyes selfcest. Non-con oral, asphyxiation/choking. Some hints at unrequited R76.
> 
> Heed the warning, ya’all. This is definitely not play or soft dub-con.

Something is haunting Gabriel’s base.

It was created by a chronal accelerator malfunction. Or it was brought into their world from… somewhere else. Winston doesn’t know yet. But it’s here. It moves in the shadows and stays in their peripheral vision, scattering in a wisp of smoke whenever they try to nail it down. Tracer isn't quick enough to corner it. The gorilla can't contain it. Jack managed to shoot it once, but it just evaporated in a seething, formless cloud. For weeks Reyes senses he's being watched.

The world won’t stop for one ominous specter rattling chains in Overwatch’s attic, so Gabriel works as best he can around it. The strike commander goes to sleep with the feeling of eyes on his back.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel is suffocating.

“You,” a voice growls in the dark, tight, like it’s indignant. “The leader of Overwatch. A wall full of awards and commendations in your big office. Everyone is so grateful to _you_ for keeping the peace.”

Gabriel rasps through what feels like smoke filling his lungs, choking his airways and causing his eyes to water. There’s no fire. There’s only the crushing weight on his stomach as a gaunt, twisted version of his own face stares down at him. The apparition’s deathly pale skin seems to glow in the moonlight.

The Reaper sneers: “What makes you so fucking special?”

The acrid burning in his chest lifts, and Gabriel heaves his first few breaths of clean air with tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s meant to answer. Fuck that.

“What are you?” he demands around the ache in his throat.

“Heh. You know what? I’ve spent years on that question. I thought I was a monster, but I’ve been watching you in this ass-backwards world. Now I know I had it all wrong.” The assailant rakes metal claws down his neck hard enough to sting the skin, and he starts to chuckle darkly. “Turns out I’m just the victim of circumstance. You came heads-up in the coin toss, but somebody else had to lose. A counterbalance for the universe’s sake. You got live, to be the hero, so I had to become _this_.”

The thing is insane. Gabriel doesn’t waste time saying so. His hands were tied to the bedposts while he was incapacitated; it leaves him vulnerable when his sweatpants are pulled down around his knees.

“What is it you want?” He tries to save face as the leather glove feels him out through his boxer briefs. The Reaper begins to stroke him through the fabric, movements just on the other side of uncomfortably hard. He ignores the question.

“Haven’t seen McCree in your inner circle. Where’d he end up?”

What? Gabriel frowns, mind scrambling. He doesn’t… wait. Wait a minute. McCree was the name of that Deadlock punk Morrison collared on a raid. There’d been a lot of discussion about what to do with the kid. In the end he went to prison. A life sentence at seventeen. That had been... fifteen years ago?

“Rotting in a hole somewhere,” he answers in hopes that the revelation will hurt. On the contrary, the Reaper’s lips draw into a cruel smile.

“In your world there’s no McCree  _and_ Ziegler’s dead? You just keep winning.” A clawed finger gently taps the tip of Gabriel’s nose. “Justice would be killing you and taking what should be mine. Since I can’t get that, I‘ll settle for ruining you.”

In a quick movement Reaper tears Gabriel’s boxers off and leaves the scraps to cling around his sweat-damp thighs. Exposed, Gabriel swallows hard. He thinks about having that creature  _inside_ him and a cold shudder grips him. 

“You’ll be begging me to let you die,” he hisses, voice low and dangerous. Reaper is undaunted. The bed creaks as he leans down, looming over Gabriel, challenging him to do anything but lie prone beneath him.

“I’ll use you until you forget what it’s like _not_ to have me in your hole.”

The last thing his training would advise is to antagonize his captor. Gabriel sets that aside and spits, “You ever consider the reason you’re like this is because you’re a pathetic psychopath?”

He waits to be hit or choked with the smoke again, but the Reaper has his patience. 

“That brave face? I can’t wait to see it crumble.”

Something in Reyes flies off it’s hitch and flails wildly, reaching for any rational explanation for this. What’s more likely than an evil twin from another dimension raping him? A trick of the mind, like a psychological attack. Talon likes to pull that shit. It’s how they got Angela. Maybe they hit him with some neurotoxin, and now Gabriel’s traumatizing himself with a self-crafted hallucination? It’s too damn surreal to be anything else. None of this can actually be happening.

But it is happening. Gabriel can feel it in his skin, especially where Reaper’s touch leaves him with a cool, crawling feeling that lingers. The bed shifts with his doppleganger’s weight, and then Reaper is straddling Gabriel at the knees. He’s now missing a glove. Gabriel doesn’t know if he took it off or if it simply vanished.

The hand on his dick feels like it was just drawn from an ice bath. He cringes at the sensation.

“Admit it, you're curious.”

“Go to hell.” He doesn’t want this. He turns stiff in Reaper’s firm strokes, but it’s only a physical reaction. He can’t help it.

“You don’t have to pretend. I’m you. I know all the filthy, dirty fantasies you don’t want to own.”

“You are  _nothing_ like me.”

Reaper grins and leans down. Gabriel turns away when the pale tongue laps over the head of his dick. 

“Sorry, but you and I? We’re only removed by a couple key people.” To punctuate the thought, Reaper plunges half-way down Gabriel’s length and whorls his tongue around the shaft. Gabriel grunts. The mouth around him isn’t hot like it should be, but it’s not uncomfortable enough to turn him off. Reaper’s lips pull off him with a wet  _pop_. That cool tingle lasts as he speaks. “Hm. He didn’t stab you in the back, and McCree’s not around, so I bet you’re even still pining after the boy scout.”

Gabriel doesn’t respond. Silence is evidently enough of an answer for Reaper. He’s back to sucking on Gabriel’s cock, teasing him exactly how he likes -- exactly how he’d imagined Jack doing when he was alone and torturing himself, dreaming about things he’d never have. 

“Stop,” he mutters when the feeling of Reaper’s sucking him off blends with the image of Jack’s blonde hair between his legs, and then the line gets confused.

Reaper doesn’t stop. He knows how this fantasy plays out. Jack, hesitating for a thousand reasons, would finally give in because it’s  _Gabriel_. It would be slow as Jack tested his lips on the skin of a man he'd considered a friend, a brother, but nothing more until then. And as Gabriel’s shaft was rocked over the back of his tongue, those bright blue eyes would look up to him for approval.

“I-uhn. Hmph.” Gabriel squeezes his eyes closed and pretends not to hear Reaper’s satisfied hum, even as it does incredible things to him.

Morrison would grow bolder with success, of course. He’d move faster, feel Gabriel out, push the limit of how much he could comfortably take in. He would fight through the gag reflex as he realized he loved the feeling of Gabriel’s cock bumping his soft pallet. A palm slides up the inside of Gabriel’s thigh and comes to fondle his balls, massaging him in time with the quickening pace of lips moving up and down his length. 

As long as he keeps his eyes closed it’s Jack blowing him. As long as he keeps his eyes closed it’s okay if he comes deep in the throat of whoever’s on top of him, because he’s thinking about Jack and that’s acceptable. 

_...yes. Yes. Don’t stop. Please. God, I've waited so long…_

It’s fast and it’s sloppy and it’s just what Gabriel pictured when he imagined calling Jack up to his office and having him kneel under his desk. He would keep his hand on the back of Morrison’s head to keep him from pulling off when his jaw got tired. He’d work the Blackwatch commander’s mouth until he’d cleaned up his technique, learning not to slurp and how to pace himself so he could last until Gabriel finished his paperwork.

Gabriel thinks about pulling out to mark his subordinate’s face and groans, “Mph, Jack.”

That’s when Reaper yanks Gabriel out of his mental refuge and banks hard right. The hand on his balls suddenly clenches around him like a vice.

It’s a frantic moment. It’s painful, but it’s also… oh, oh shit. Gabriel looks down and locks eyes with Reaper, still throat-deep on his cock, and that’s when he breaks. He tries to hold it back. He tries to stop it because it’s not Jack anymore; it’s this sick, conniving version of  _himself_ -

“Fuck! Fuck, no! Damn it!” he howls as he starts to come, furious at his own body’s betrayal. He bucks his hips up to where Reaper is waiting to take him all, the tremors of his orgasm so much harder than he can bring himself to acknowledge. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want this.

So why is it so goddamn _good?!_

He can’t see his cock with the armor, but Gabriel knows that the Reaper is just as turned on as he is. He takes his victim’s load greedily, swallowing down what is essentially his own come with pleased glint in his eyes. Staring down over his heaving chest, Gabriel watches numbly as the pale-skinned Reaper coaxes him through the last, desperate spasms of his cock until there’s nothing left in him. His will to fight drains from him. Gabriel is sapped and more defeated than he’s ever been.

The Reaper looks up and their eyes make contact again. Reaper winks. Gabriel gets the feeling his should look away, but he doesn’t. 

Christ. There must be a pathological narcissism that runs through every version of the man they are.

He lies and waits and lets Reaper do what he wants. Mind otherwise idle, his thoughts begin to broach the subject of what comes next. They don’t get very far. He can’t handle the idea that his ass is about to be raped by himself, let alone the increasingly evident fact that he’ll enjoy it – at least physically. Reaper will know how to make him respond in a favorable manner. He’ll know the best way in which to leave Gabriel a destroyed, conflicted mess afterward. 

When it’s over the flanging laughter reverberates through him as his gut coils tight. As if on cue, reality comes flooding back. Humiliation and guilt and hormones wrack Gabriel to the core, making him feel like every molecule is vibrating.

“You think  _I’m_ pathetic?” Reaper plants a kiss on his hipbone, disgustingly sweet and chase. “Thirty years and you’re still jerking it to the farm boy. ‘No, stop, I don’t want this!’ Bullshit. You’ve been dying for someone to come along and use you like I will. Eventually.”

Reaper climbs off the bed, and Gabriel assumes it’s to reposition them both. It’s what he would do. He likes to take his partners from behind and watch them in a mirror. Reaper will want to see Gabriel’s face when he’s fucking him. 

Then Reaper taunts, “Look at you. Shit, we look fantastic when we’re taken care of right.” His voice takes a dangerous upturn. “Think Jack’ll agree when he finds you?”

What? Gabriel searches Reaper's face before the mask is replaced. He’d expected the other him to be undressing, but Reaper moves towards to the door. Oh, no. No, no, _no-_

“Don’t leave me like this.” He doesn’t say please. He’s sure the crack in his voice does it for him.

"And all of a sudden he doesn't want me to leave. Don't worry. I'll be back to make good on my promise." With a coy chuckle Reaper says, “Catch you next time, good-looking.”

After the smoke disappears through the gap under the door Reyes musters his strength and tries the restraints again. He pulls as hard as he can, but there’s no give. Defeated, he drops his head back on the mattress and goes limp.

He’ll have to wait for Jack or Ana to come looking for him.


	9. Hierarchy - Akande Ogundimu / Jean-Baptiste Augustin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mauga has something Akande wants.
> 
> A/B/O. Domination/submission, breeding, objectifying language, talk of m!preg and public sex. Level of consent is sort of subjective and up to the reader's interpretation.

The broad-chested heavy and his handsome medic partner are bonded. This blending of work and personal relationships is not forbidden in Talon. Their fighting force is comprised of many disparate groups, so any unifying stratagem that can keep their best operatives working together - and working for the organization - is welcome. Reaper has the devotion of his former Blackwatch agents. Sombra is able to blackmail detractors back into line. For the outright opposed, Widowmaker serves as an example.

Akande has his own methods for keeping the best of his subordinates close.

The medic is coming into season. The heavy, his mate, is confident no one will challenge him for breeding rights. Even as his omega partner wafts pheromones into the common areas and sends other alphas bristling with possessive need, Mauga is supremely unconcerned with the lingering looks as potential takers measure him up. In the end they all back down. Friendly smile aside, he is large and powerful and comes with a ferocious reputation.

Akande considers the potential consequences, both positive and negative, to altering their dynamic. He decides the rank-and-file should be reminded of who is the top alpha in Talon, and later approaches the heavy and his medic in the atrium. Dozens of agents, technicians, and support staff bustle around them, oblivious.

The pair address him with proper deference at first, thinking he is there to give them orders. Akande stares at the heavy, wordless but with clear and deliberate intent. Mauga’s expression goes from relaxed to knowing. He can smell Akande’s alpha pheromones twisting the air between them, already asserting his dominance. The medic doesn’t understand right away. He looks to his partner for a cue, but Mauga moves to put his enormous frame between his mate and the new challenger.

“I don’t want to throw down with my boss,” he says apologetically. “Hope you don’t hold it against me.”

Akande waves his concern off.

“I’d be a terrible leader if I punished a man professionally for defending what was his. Best to keep matters of business and breeding separate, I think.”

“Glad you agree,” Mauga says, looking relieved.

They fight.

Bystanders scramble out of the way but linger along the walls and upper balcony to watch the spectacle. Mauga has held a high place in their informal hierarchy for a long time, long enough that many are curious to know how he’d fare against the apex alpha. Mauga had shoved his omega away at the beginning; the medic is still where he stumbled backward to the floor, watching two of the most powerful males battle for him. He is close enough that the clash of their fists and their scents is drawing a physical reaction from him. Akande spares the omega short glances and thinks: _Good_. By the time he is done and ready to claim his prize the medic will be in full heat.

Mauga lives up to his reputation, refusing to hold back when he lands a blow or sends Akande rolling across the floor. But he has grown soft and complacent in places where Ogundimu has been hardened by conflict, and for every hit Akande takes he returns with one harder. The fight in both of them changes: Mauga falls back to instinct and testosterone, Akande to his training and primordial need to hold his title. Challenging this subordinate was a gamble. He stood to win a desirable mate but could lose his place as the top male if defeated. He will not allow it.

He catches a whiff of the omega’s scent musking the air, and Ogundimu’s resolve coalesces into brutal kicks, uppercuts, body slams.

“Don’t kill him!” the medic shouts when it looks like Akande might slam his dazed opponent’s head into the ground. Mauga staggers to his hands and knees but can get no further.

Akande had no intention of doing so. Mauga is an asset to Talon, and it is better to keep matters of business and breeding separate. Still, he looks to the omega, then back at the heavy as if reluctant to walk away. There’s nothing wrong with letting anyone think he spared his opponent as a favor.

Around the atrium, eyes are upon them. The fight will have a ripple effect. Alphas riled by the duel will clash throughout the day, fighting for a higher place in the hierarchy, to test their peers’ mettle, or to add a new mate to their harem. This is exactly as Akande planned. A mass struggle in the ranks is good from time to time. It keeps Talon strong at the top and their omegas pregnant with the best young.

And speaking of…

Akande allows Mauga to collect himself and goes to the medic. He picks his winnings off the floor by the elbow, nudging the omega along when he hesitates to leave his former alpha in his wounded state. He is aroused, but concern somehow overcomes the urgency of biology.

“You can go to him when we’re done,” Ogundimu says not unkindly. Mauga can have the medic’s affections; he was only interested in taking the body for his own.

Besides, it will be good for him to visit his old mate after, when the smell of his new alpha dominant is still fresh on his skin and thick from his hole. It would be a helpful little reminder to all involved of the change of ownership.

 

* * *

 

Away from the scene and in Akande’s bed, the omega becomes utterly compliant with the onset of his heat. He moves at the alpha’s will, does what he is told without protest. Subjugation comes easily, and Akande wonders if Mauga had broken him into obedience or if his instinct just held that much power over him.

“Why did you not let him breed you?” Ogundimu asks, two fingers deep inside the omega’s cunt. The medic lies naked on his back with knees drawn up to his chest, watching the alpha’s face as he is worked open.

“I would have. The sex was enough for him.”

“Then he didn’t deserve to have you. Healthy, intelligent, capable… A bitch of your quality should be mated, not wasted as a casual toy.”

His fingers discover the flexible shape inside the omega. He coaxes the diaphragm down and pulls it out, tossing the device to the floor. Akande orders the younger man to stay as he is, then sets about untying his sash. Pheromones have him hard and eager to make this new thing his own.

“There’s nothing else?” he asks. The omega is breathing harder now, unable to tear his eyes away when Akande disrobes and reveals his thick cock.

“No,” he croaks hungrily. Between his thighs, the omega’s dick arches towards his belly; his hole runs with slick that pulses from him in needy anticipation.

“Good. You should know I keep my harem pregnant. Expect to be used hard and often until you begin to show.”

“Understood.”

“The next time will be in public. I’d have fucked you in the atrium and made Mauga watch, but I wanted to give you time to ready yourself for it. Everyone must be made aware you belong to me now.”

Furious blushing. “When-”

“Tomorrow. Later today, perhaps. Whenever I feel like it,” Akande says, positioning himself between the medic’s legs. He thrusts the length of his cock over his mate’s wet, warm hole and smiles at the anxious jump he’s answered with.

“I am not a gentle master,” Ogundimu warns him.

“You-” A crack in his voice. The omega clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “You are my alpha.” _Do to me as you will._

“Good boy.”

Akande fucks his new bitch for hours. There is a strange, irritating notion that he must purge Mauga’s prior claim to the medic by touching any part of him that _he_ had ever touched, and by filling any hole _he_ might have filled. Like in the fight, he does not hold any part of himself back. Ogundimu pounds the omega’s pussy roughly, making the bed bounce and slam against the wall in time to his mate’s mewls and whimpers. He makes the medic look him in the eye throughout much of it, just in case he attempts to mentally scurry to some imaginary refuge where Mauga might be.

After the first time he knots and fills the omega with his cum with a roar of release, he flips the man over, drags him up to his knees, and starts again. Akande’s mate whines, but he submits as demanded.

Two knots will be enough for now, Akande decides. He can plug the medic with a toy to better the odds of taking his seed, and that will leave him with energy enough to mount him again after the evening meal. Maybe he’ll take his needy omega whore to the Commons? It will be full of people around that time.

If all goes well, his new acquisition will be carrying inside a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to assume the reason this 9-drabble work is coming up on 900 hits with no reviews is because ya'all are rushing off to diddle after reading. That's great, no big deal, totally flattered. But if you've got any requests for potential pairings, kinks, or pairings AND kinks, feel free to send 'em my way. No guarantees, but I'm open to play ball (ha).


	10. Rejuvenate - Gabriel Reyes / Jesse McCree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A" is for aftercare. Very morally conflicted CO/junior officer aftercare. 
> 
> Gabriel Reyes / Jesse McCree. Post-gangbang cleanup. Reyes struggles between duty and desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten some requests that I'm letting stew in my brain. Most are safe, though others are thematically... dark. Very dark. While I'm interested in doing some of them (things like a more non-con continuation of "Haunt", Shimada incest, brainwashing, etc), I'm not comfortable putting those *really* hardcore works where just anyone is free to trudge past warning tags and pleas for responsible reading. Is it ironic, given the content of this work so far which is public? Yeah, agreed. All I can say is my threshold is weird and subjective but that's just how it is. I don't know. I'll think about it.
> 
> Reviews on this work are screened, by the by. If you have a comment/request but would prefer to keep it unpublished, simply say so.

When he finds Jesse, Gabriel’s first response is to roll his eyes and sigh hugely.

 _This_ time the cowboy’s been tied down to a table in the rec room, left naked and looking like he’s been used a dozen times over. The helpful tally marks that have been drawn onto his thighs verify it. Fourteen. Not as many as last time, but most of the recon squads are on deployment. Gabriel stands on used condoms and oozing lube packets as he cuts a drowsy McCree from the flexcuffs.

“Again, Jesse? Really?” he grumbles, gathering the young man into his arms and carrying him princess-style to the elevator. 

The exhausted cowboy’s shoulder bounce with a chuckle.

“Fonseca asked if I was up for a table game with some of the guys. Should’a known.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, and tells him to hit the call button.

Most operatives get small, one-room quarters which house the bare living essentials, but the Blackwatch Commander enjoys a full apartment on the top floor. Gabriel doesn’t get to spend much time in it, but it’s the only place he can privately put McCree back in order after the ranks decide to have a go at him. He carries Jesse straight to the bedroom and lies him down on laundered linens, gently guiding the cowboy’s arm off from around his neck when his subordinate is slow to let go. Reyes enters the adjoining bathroom and runs water in the tub.

“I can’t have two days off base without you making a huge mess for me to clean up?” he calls over the rush of water. 

“Me? Talk to Fonseca and his pilot buddies. I told ‘em to cut it out.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you fought it real hard.”

“Blame the victim, why don’t ya?” McCree’s voice is equal parts sleepy and amused. He’s sated, which Gabriel supposes can be construed as a silver lining. 

When he returns to the bed Jesse is mindlessly kneading the blankets in his fingers. He gives Gabriel a soft smile, one the commander knows he can’t validate no matter what warm feeling it sends flurrying in his belly.

“This needs to stop. You can’t climb the ladder when everyone thinks of you as the division slut,” he says, tone lacking the drill sergeant harshness that would make it effective. It's sounds more like he's making a plea. 

“I don’t need promotions to prove anything. Everyone ‘round here knows I hold my own in the field.”

“What they know is you have the potential to surpass them all. You being a complacent fuck toy keeps you at the bottom of the command, and I didn’t spend all that time and money training up a low-rank grunt. You can be so much more than that.”

For once McCree seems genuinely chastised. It’s taken a couple years, but Gabriel’s finally hammering the Deadlock out of him. Jesse thinks like a gang member: that survival equates to success, and anything else that comes his way is gravy. He’d excel in Blackwatch if he’d raise the expectations for himself higher than just making it through the day. Having too little ambition can be as disastrous as having too much. 

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He gathers Jesse back up and eases him in the tub. It’s only half-full yet, but McCree folds his arms on the edge and rests his chin there. He's too comfortable with his boss seeing him like this. The trust is absolute. Gabriel mulls that over while he gets a clean washcloth. It’s always the same modus operandi when McCree gets piled on: they cover him in gloating smears of cum and lube, then leave him tied up for the next person to either use or free. Reyes isn’t sure, but there seems to be an understanding that Jesse doesn’t get let go until the commander himself puts a stop to their fun. When the cat’s away and all that. His people are careful not to be around when he finds McCree in such a state state. 

He kneels on the floor. Jesse blinks at him lazily. Gabriel creates a lather in the washcloth and rubs soapy circles starting at the nape of Jesse’s hairline. He dunks the cloth and lets the warm, sudsy water cascade down the planes of his back, washing away the sharp tang of sweat. How long were they railing him this time? Fourteen tallies. He hopes they went down in quick succession. For some reason Reyes is more bothered by duration than quantity when he imagines these little gang bangs happening (as far as he'll let mental image go). He really doesn't like the idea of Jesse being left out like some kind of community sex doll, his restrained, helpless limbs an open invitation for anyone bored enough to take advantage of. 

"You gettin' lost  up in your own head?"

"Lean back," Gabriel answers. Water sloshes. He holds onto Jesse's hand and tells himself it's so he can scrub the cowboy's arm. Jesse's fingers curl into his.

He knows McCree's watching him, but Gabriel pointedly refuses eye contact. He has a task to focus on. Over and over again, he brings the cloth up and wrings it over Jesse's permanently sun kissed skin, admiring the watershed over the curves and edges of his body.

The front is where the damage was done. Red welts and blooms of early bruises are emerging. Reyes carefully rubs where teeth scraped over Jesse’s collarbone, where sore nipples throb from being abused, and where fingers dug too hard looking for purchase. Goddamn animals. Maybe McCree does like it rough, but it wouldn’t take much for things to get out of hand. The thought has kept Gabriel awake at night.

Jesse turns off the faucet; the water is high and hot enough. Everything still needing to be cleaned is now beneath the surface, and he rolls to grant access to his hips. Reyes wraps the bar of soap in the washcloth and goes to work on Jesse's legs. The tally marks… They’ll be there for a while. Permanent marker. Gabriel gives them a cursory scrub attempt before moving on to the other various leavings of his ambushers.

"We both know you wouldn't be doin' this if you was only concerned with my potential."

The tone of soft, but it's still an accusation meant to suss out a motive. McCree's got a fair point. Fortunately, Gabriel's leveled himself with that same truth over and over, and he's concocted a dozen little lies to appease himself that will serve Jesse just as well.

"You should have somebody to take care of you. Just because I think so doesn't mean it should be me."

"But it is. Every time I need takin' care of, it is."

_And it always will be, until you find the one who'll take my place._

The timing of this conversation couldn't be worse. His hand is between McCree’s thighs when the younger man purrs, “You know, if you wanted to-”

“Jesse,” Gabriel sighs.

“Why not?”

For so, so many reasons.

“Because I cant promote you if I’m fucking you.”

“I’m sure there’s all sorts of rules against group sex in the showers, but we play loose with a lot of guidelines 'round here.”

“Sleeping with your own rank is one thing, but fraternizing is a different matter entirely. I’d lose the respect of every soldier in my command.”

“Who says anyone’s got to know?”

Sure. It's not as though  _most_ of the people they work with aren't world class spies and infiltrators. No doubt there are eyes that take note when Reyes hauls Jesse up to his quarters already, and they’re just waiting for further confirmation of what goes on up there. Or for an opportunity to present itself, maybe. Gabriel has done much to secure the loyalty of his men, but you can never be sure. What he does know for sure is if things get an iota more convoluted than they already are it'll cause an avalanche of headaches for him down the line. 

New deflection, stated more firmly: “You’re closer in age to my kid, cowboy. Let it go.”

Jesse doesn’t have an argument ready beyond the obvious, and he knows that won’t work. He doesn’t try it.

Reyes is allowed to finish his work in peace. This is so far beyond appropriate behavior for him as McCree’s CO, but Jesse’s induction into Blackwatch was unconventional from the start. Their working relationship was always going to be riddled with nuance and complications since Jesse was more of an apprentice to Gabriel than a soldier. The lines got muddied. In the looser paramilitary structure of Blackwatch lines were supposed to be muddied. Gabriel is sure not by this much, however. 

It’s too late to dial it back, establish those boundaries. He doesn’t really want to. The best he can do is not allow it to progress any further. 

“If you ever change your mind,” McCree offers pitifully. End statement. Reyes doesn’t acknowledge it.

When he finishes with the body, Gabriel pulls the showerhead down and wets Jesse’s scalp. Some crude motherfucker decided to jerk off into his hair - not onto his face and it just ran back, but directly **into** his hair where it created a hardened, tangled mess. Reyes huffs with annoyance and grabs the all-in-one. Jesse tilts his head obligingly with eyes closed, enjoying Gabriel’s blunted fingernails massaging his scalp. Reyes senses any feelings of rejection he might have gotten across have already been tossed aside and forgotten.

Of course he knows. He’s not an idiot. Jesse spreads his legs for groups of his peers to get the attention of his unattainable crush, and Gabriel feeds right into it. Worse, he’s unwilling to do anything to deter that behavior. He’s told Jesse to knock it off knowing it won’t work. He could start doling out directives and punishments, but… But. He hasn't yet. He won't.

“Thank you,” murmurs the cowboy. He’s getting sleepy. Understandable, after what he’s been through. Reyes is hit with a pang of affection and retrieves the shower head for a final rinse. He shields Jesse's brow with the blade of his hand so shampoo doesn't run into his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep and drown,” he says when there’s nothing left, and he’s just touching Jesse to be touching Jesse. There’s a reflex to kiss his forehead. Gabriel resists, and finds a towel for when he’s ready to get out. He leaves his subordinate to soak in the warm water. 

After the time he found McCree strapped to a bench in the weight room Reyes had him store some BDUs in his place. Jesse couldn’t leave his quarters in a towel, and Gabriel was tired of getting his t-shirts back weeks later and with the sleeves stretched out. He pulls those from the drawer (should Jesse have a dedicated space for his clothes in Reyes’ room? That seems ethically dubious) and lays them out on the bed. No shoes. Maybe he should look into that and get something. They don't have to be boots, but just something so he won’t be walking around barefoot. 

Shit. Why doesn't he just house Jesse's cologne and razor while he's at it?

Gabriel gets a beer from the fridge, puts a game on the tv, and sits on the couch without paying either much attention. After about fifteen minutes he hears Jesse shuffling around in the back room while the drain gurgles. He emerges a short while later, dressed and with hair tussled into reasonable shape. It needs a cut. It's needed to be cut for years. 

“How’re you feeling?” Gabriel asks.

“Me? Aw, I’m tired but I’m good. Thank ya.” Jesse stands quietly and watches the players jockey across the screen. Gabriel waits. The cowboy wouldn’t linger to watch basketball, that he knows for sure. “Would it be okay if I hung around up here for a bit? I won’t stay long.”

Gabriel pauses. The only psuedo-acceptable response is to put on his exasperated father voice and droll _McCree_ before sending him on his way. He’s already sowing future havoc as it is, but Reyes can’t muster up the resolve. Jesse knows better to ask for that, innocuous as the simple request may seem. He did anyway. He must really need it. Gabriel’s never been able to exercise “better judgement” when it comes to Jesse McCree.

“Until the end of the game, then I’m going to bed. You want something to drink?”

“I’ll get it myself if I do.”

Over the course of the second half Jesse wordlessly migrates from the middle of the couch to Gabriel’s side. It's not subtle. Reyes doesn't call him out. By the time the final whistle is blown the snoozing cowboy is cuddled up to him, face smashed up against his bicep, breathing deeply in exhausted slumber. Gabriel brushes some hair out of the man’s face and thinks, _so much for professionalism_.

He toes off his boots, negotiates positions with a mostly-asleep Jesse so that he has the younger man draped over his chest, and closes his eyes. When he's sure McCree's back under and won't know, Gabriel plants a kiss on his head. 


End file.
